


wing

by romanoff



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Wing Grooming, Wing Kink, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-18 02:30:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21720325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/romanoff
Summary: Prompt for AU Wing-fic
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 19
Kudos: 311





	wing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CircleUp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CircleUp/gifts).



Steve tells him to meet him in the conference room.

He has the liberty of doing that. Anyone else, they might tentatively invite. At best, they would suggest. At worst, suggest harder. No one orders him. Commands him, or makes him do something he doesn’t want to do. That’s not him being grandiose, it’s fact; that’s just the way it is, the way it’s always been. 

But with Steve? It makes his feathers bristle.

He’s standing, near enough plastered against the window, hands behind his back. But it’s a dominance move, a clear one, because it means Tony can see the sheer breadth of his wings, from his shoulder-blades all the way to the tips of his primaries. Sheer white, straight out of a propaganda poster for a Nazi eugenics programme. Although Steve would probably balk at the thought. That’s just how good he is.

Even though right now he has he wings extended. Totally relaxed, unthreatening, unassuming. He’s very good at that, usually. So why does he have his wings extended.

He doesn’t hold the charade for long, looking over his shoulder and smiling, naturally good-natured. “Tony,” he says, like he’s genuinely happy to see him, “you came.”

“I didn’t think I was given much of a choice,” he replies, and he wants it to sound like a jab but for some reason his words are half-mumbled, and it feels more petulant than anything else.

“You weren’t,” Steve agrees, but even that’s said like it’s all easy-breezy apple-pie. “Sit,” he orders, pulling out the chair at the head of the table.

It should be reserved for Steve. Which means, Steve doesn’t plan on sitting down.

“I’m so glad you could make it,” he’s telling him, brushing his hands lightly against Tony’s shoulders, squeezing, the whole length of him at his back. His grip has Tony leaning into the back of the chair, the pressure filling up all those instinctive, reassuring signals: safe, and covered, and protected, right against the softness of his tertials. “You might not know this, but it’s very important to me that you respect me, Tony.”

His voice is stern and soft, like a teacher. His thumbs dig into the worn, knotted muscle that thickens his shoulders. They press, right into a thick lump of tissue that’s been sending pressure into the back of his head for days since he took flight from the top of tower. He can’t help dropping his head, just a little, letting him work the thumb deeper. “Yeah,” he agrees, clearing his throat. “Well – hey, I respect you. Cap.”

“Mmm,” Steve hums, “that means a lot to me, Tony. I know this couldn’t have been easy for you.”

Tony feels himself tighten, pushing up. The start of the nice mellow, relaxed sensation has gone, his back is up, his tips are bristling. ‘This’, i.e. my being here, taking your place, the place you’ve always occupied, the respect you were always shown. Used to be, people would stop and nod when Tony entered a room. Now, Steve goes before him, and anyone with any sense is careful to avoid meeting Tony’s eyes.

“It’s alright, now,” Steve says like he’s soothing a nervy horse. He strokes one hand against the side of Tony’s neck, right down to his shoulder. “We should be allowed to talk about this, right? It’s not like it’s a secret. And you’re very important, Tony. Absolutely vital.”

He punctuates his words with another, well-aimed dig into the strained muscle on Tony’s shoulders. Despite himself, he feels his eyes grow heavy – can’t help it, instinct is a bitch, and instinct wants to tell him that Rogers is looking out for him, is stronger than him, is so much – much better at – uh…

“That’s it,” Steve preens, happily. “There, just go easy now, Tony. I just want to talk, and have you listen to me.”

Which might be true. But if Steve wanted a relaxed conversation, he would have chosen the lounge, not a conference room eighty floors high bracketed by glass on all sides where anyone can see.

“You going to – make me a shit sandwich?” Tony grunts. He braces his forearm against the table, allows himself to lean forward just a little, letting his brown-and-gold feathers relax on either side of him. He’s letting his guard down. He can’t help it. Steve really does give the most amazing massages.

“No,” Steve tells him, lightly. “That would be patronising, Tony. I don’t need to patronise you, you know what you did.”

And he gently brushes his hand up Tony’s nape, pins it in his hair. Pins him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tony says, as levelly as he can manage. This is the kicker – this is the reason Steve’s in charge: his wide, open wings are coming down to bracket him on either side. He’s held. Left, right, and centre. Only place is forward, now. To bend himself, subservient, baring the vulnerable soft middle of his shoulder-blades.

“You do,” Steve says, simply. He’s gripping his neck so lightly. The table-top is cool beneath his cheek.

“Well?” Tony asks him. He blinks slowly, enough that when he opens his eyes again, everything has gone traitorously soft and blurry at the edges. Before Steve, no one could do this to him. Except his father. And even then, only when he was small, before his wings grew to eclipse his old man’s, and pretty much everyone else’s. Oh, before. Before, before, before. What’s the fucking point.

“I think, I must really rattle you, Tony,” Steve tells him gently. His hand slides down from Tony’s neck, but he doesn’t make an attempt to sit up. Instead, he lets him settle his palm between his wings. “Me, being here. Taking what you thought was yours.”

“I don’t think it,” Tony answers, but his heart’s not really in it, not when Steve is dragging a nail across the sensitive join where wing-bone meets skin.

“But that’s what you said,” Steve says, casually, as he grips the stump of it, shushes him when he starts to skitter. “Easy now, Tony. We’re just talking.”

But his wings flex once, beyond his control, knocking back into Steve, who just presses harder. “Oh,” Tony swallows his groan, curling his hands into fists. His shoulders tense, arching up like a bow.

“You told Fury, I hadn’t earned my place. Which I take to mean you think you have, and that I’ve – what, Tony? Taken yours?”

He shakes his head futilely, once, because he can feel Steve’s gentle fingers creeping into the down of his feathers, fingers carelessly tucking themselves into the softness. “No,” he gasps. “I meant – Jesus, Rogers, I was just drunk.”

“I see,” Steve says thoughtfully. He tsks. “Look at this, Tony. When was the last time you had a nice groom, hmm?”

Tony might say something like, no time, or, good enough, but Steve is already picking his way delicately through the down, each brush, each pluck, sending cascading shivers up his spine, filling his head with that delirious buzzing. 

“You just settle here, now,” Steve tells him warmly, “let me take of it, hmm?”

By the time he’s done, Tony’s a shivering wreck. Steve tucked his thumbs into places he rarely lets others go, has had his feathers smoothed, muscles dug into shape. His eyes are shut, he’s half-way gone. I hate you, he thinks drowsily, but he doesn’t mean it. He hates this, maybe. The circumstances. The arbitrariness of it all.

But it does feel good, to be thrumming with pleasure beneath the hands of someone who’s wings are broad enough to cloak him. Keep him safe.

“I know,” Steve says. Tony hadn’t realised he’d even spoked aloud. “This does feel good, doesn’t it Tony? To have someone take care of you.”

Tony nods, sleepily. He’s drooled on the glass counter-top, his head tucked into the crook of his arm. “Mmm hmm,” he agrees.

“Then I’m glad we could have this discussion.” The hands are pulled away. Steve briskly rubs at Tony’s back, brushing down any errant feathers. He doesn’t feel compelled to say any words of parting. But Tony lies there still, for some long minutes afterwards; the sun is slipping behind some building or other, but it’s warm on the back of his neck. Where Steve’s hand had been.


End file.
